Wendy and Richard Pini, creators of long-running indy comic series Elfquest, are making the whole caboodle available free of charge at their website. New issues will be posted weekly until 30 years’ worth is online.
Comment from BoingBoing and Metafilter remind us why this is one of the best comics you’ve never heard of, but here’s a quick primer on why it rules.
• With Dave Sim’s Cerebus, it was among the first self-published comics to make it big, booting down the door for new talent the nation over. Its success as a graphic novel in mainstream bookstores helped infect the American mainstream with a European-esque appreciation for comics. Women actually read this. Women.
• Wendy Pini’s art is a melting pot of comics, manga and classical illustration. And she’s been at it since before most people had even heard of manga…
• The feral, omnisexual, hallucinogen-guzzling protagonists aren’t Tolkien-derived clichés, but a freakish medley of european lore, native american myth and hippy free love.
• No superheroes, magic wands or other arbitrary magics. It’s consistently plotted to tight rules of engagement and expertly crafted by the same wife-and-husband team thats been doing little else since 1977.
• It’s a neat blend of high fantasy and science fiction: the “elves” are aliens who wanted to impress us by appearing as angels, but got stuck in a genetic disguise by their slaves’ violent rebellion.
• All the fashions in it are either from the 1970s or the 1930s: everyone is either a pimp in furs and leather or something sculpted by Erté. They just don’t make ‘em like this any more.
• Winnowill is the best arch-villainess since Maleficent Cthulhu.
• It’s not over: the story’s final showdown, the creators write, has been written but not yet published.
• 6,000 pages of full-color classic indy brilliance free of charge. Precedent set.
• Issue #17’s Elf Orgy. If nothing else, a great name for a punk band. (Brownlee has already demanded scans, but I don’t have a copy to hand — any fans out there who can do the honors?)
Ripped from the very neural simulation spaces of Qais Fulton’s mental “barn o’ bad-assed bestial boning” comes the above video, a complement to his most recent post about the guy who died from horsey/human butt ballet: purportedly a clip from a documentary that aired outside the United States concerning zoophilia and all manner of weirdos who have all manner of weirdo sex with their pets, we get to watch a be-mulletted blonde guy and a lady who looks like she should be behind the counter of some “quaint” roadside Americana store selling Yankee Candles speaking very candidly about how they…well, “go ’round the world” with the lady’s miniature stallion. Discussed are their first date, in which the woman decided to try the “shock factor” on her prospective beau by ducking under the horse for a quickie, their marriage, and their current sex life…with the horse. At no point do the two ever discuss actually meshing genitalia in the traditional human-on-human approach, which leads me to believe their marriage is actually a farce–indeed, actually a threesome, in which one member is, well, a horse. Do I hear charges of bigamy?! Going once…going twice…?
I’ll bet ANY reader Out There in Ectomoland that one or both of these horse-humpin’ honkies are furries, as well. So, to anyone checking out that event in Atlanta on the 29th, keep a keen eye out for two people in horsey costumes, who may be rubbing up against each other in a manner thoroughly inappropriate to a family place like a bowling alley. If so, approach with caution: they were last sighted trying to make a campfire and chasing each other around with leathered donkey dicks.
(BTW: What the hell is up with me an alliteration these days? Damn!)
Here at ectomo, we like the bestiality. Seriously, Brownlee keeps his own stable of “whorses” and on many a night can be heard the melodious results of his amorous advances. So, it was with great anticipation that I showed him the teaser trailer for Michael Sullivan’s The Sex Life of Robots in the hopes that it would both please and arouse him so that I might not be flogged again. Sullivan, who had been working on an animated robot war movie when the idea struck him to feature robot sex as well, explains it thusly:
“It’s supposed to be like a silent robot porno movie from another planet.”
This seemed like the perfect distraction for His Enormity.
Eliza and I have been having a long running debate as to whether the Noise du Jour needs to actually be musically satisfying, or if it can just be a great video. We’ve come to no clear consensus, hence this terrible dong by Dir En Gray, a bizarre amalgam of black metal and a boy band. Drooling geeks, decapitated naked corpses and blood-gurgling geisha orgies… what more could you ask, except competence?
The pattern of world politics, etched upon the solid gold cock ring of Karl Rove’s gay, piercing fetishist father, Louie?
I didn’t know his son — all I knew about his family was what Louie recounted to me as I looked at their pictures in the living room. Other than that I was mostly bothered by their visits to Palm Springs or his to Santa Fe, since that meant the house was closed for other over-night friends. And as to his former wife, Louie told me he had come out and so they divorced. But when I saw his family photographs I just saw the usual groupings of people and smiling-faced portraitures.
As a way to introduce me to piercing, he showed me a collection of the “world’s first body piercing magazine” — PFIQ (Piercing Fans International Quarterly). Those early magazines depicted a world many thought of “only as a handful of widely dispersed and closeted hardcore fetishists.” I was fascinated.
And pictured in that magazine was Louie … well, not Louie’s face but it was definitely Louie’s piercings [Editor’s note: in fact, Louie was one of their best known cover models!]. Louie had more genital piercings — all gold — than God … and there they were, all pictured in that magazine.
Perhaps not: it’s all anecdotal and unsupported, and the timing is suspect. Of course, I’m not sure I want to see the clinical DNA report that proves conclusively that the big toe thick ring laying in the palm of this guy’s hand, strangely stained with crusty verdigris, was actually used to thickly squeeze the erection of Rove. Sr.
The position you see here is position 01010100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01010010 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 01110011 01100101 00100000 01010000 01100001 01110010 01110100 01101001 01100011 01101100 01100101 00100000 01000001 01100011 01100011 01100101 01101100 01100101 01110010 01100001 01110100 01101111 01110010, more colloquially known as the ‘Reverse Particle Accelerator.’ I must remember to try that one.
Would anyone really have minded losing World War II to the Nazis if the SS had been full of sexy dominatrixes like Ilsa? I know, I know: the Jews, the Gypsies, the Homosexuals, the Political Dissidents. But I’d hope that, given a Nazi army largely populated by busty sadomasochists with an insatiable hunger for bisexual love, they’d have taken one for the team. Fascism’s just not so bad when you’re handcuffed to a swastika-shaped bed and being ridden by a foxy minx. It only falls apart when a wattled toad like Joseph Goebbels is doing the riding.
I’m posting uncensored under the assumption that through the hypocrisy of corporate America, monochromatic mammaries exposed in their erect and perky glory will not raise suspicions of inter-cubicle masturbation in the minds of your employers. If I’m wrong, let me know, we’ll octobee it, and it’ll be lesson learned.
Exactly as witnessed during a chance childhood glance out of doors during dinner, the mucus-slicked, translucent rituals of the Leopard Slug in estrus. Narrated by the venerable David Attenborough (again, as in childhood) but lacking in the weird unease that accompanied the first time I oversaw this alien rite.
My father, a locally-celebrated gastropodologist and staunch defender of the native Banana Slug, tsked at the flagrant display of fertility by an invasive species. Still, recognizing an opportunity to brand the tender brains of his firstborn with a sight rarely witnessed by human eyes, he sat me in front of the strange ritual and guaranteed that I would never, ever be able to cast it from my brain.
Not that I have ever wanted to. Such sculptural grace in their spiraling, such limpid horror in the double helix of their moonstone-blue, entwined penii; these things informed my teenage years spent wiping my nose along meters of locker doors, leading lovesick manchildren to dangling trysts on the monkey bars.
A sad day for hedonists everywhere: one of our own has died, and not — as I know he would have liked — by asphyxiation while snorting blow out of the rectum of a BBW dominatrix, into which he was ensconced down to the waist.
Count Gottfried von Bismarck, who was found dead on Monday aged 44, was a louche German aristocrat with a multi-faceted history as a pleasure-seeking heroin addict, hell-raising alcoholic, flamboyant waster and a reckless and extravagant host of homosexual orgies…
The great-great-grandson of Prince Otto, Germany’s Iron Chancellor and architect of the modern German state, the young von Bismarck showed early promise as a brilliant scholar, but led an exotic life of gilded aimlessness that attracted the attention of the gossip columns from the moment he arrived in Oxford in 1983 and hosted a dinner at which the severed heads of two pigs were placed at either end of the table.
When not clad in the lederhosen of his homeland, he cultivated an air of sophisticated complexity by appearing in women’s clothes, set off by lipstick and fishnet stockings.
In sheer defiance of the World Wide Web Consortium's will, Ectomo was designed using a non-web-standard font. Luckily, it is included in the excellent font pack released by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, which can be freely downloaded in Mac and PC formats here. Ectomo should still look fine without it, though.
The pattern of world politics, etched upon the solid gold cock ring of Karl Rove’s gay, piercing fetishist father, Louie? 
A sad day for hedonists everywhere: one of our own has died, and not — as I know he would have liked — by asphyxiation while snorting blow out of the rectum of a BBW dominatrix, into which he was ensconced down to the waist. 
